“That's not something I let myself think about much.” He turned his head to look at me, firelight catching in his eyes. “This life—coaching, the schedule, the pressure—it doesn't leave room for much else. And after the divorce, I convinced myself I didn't need it.”
“But you still want it.”
“Maybe.” His hand tightened around mine. “But wanting something and being able to have it are different things.”
I understood that more than I wanted to. “Your parents. Do they know?”
“My mom does. Told her a couple years after the divorce. She took it better than I expected—said she'd wondered but wanted me to tell her when I was ready.” His voice softened. “She's good people. Made it clear nothing changed between us.”
“That's... that's really good.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “My dad died when I was in my twenties—heart attack. It was sudden. Never got to have that conversation with him. Don't know if he would've understood or cared or written me off completely.”
“I'm sorry,” I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
“It is what it is.” Grant shifted, pulling me closer. “But my mom—having her support made a difference. Made it feel less like I was carrying it alone.”
I rested my head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
A long silence settled over us, comfortable and warm, and somewhere in it my eyes got heavy. I tried to track something — the fire, the sound of the wind outside — but the thoughts kept sliding away before I could hold them.
“You still with me?” Grant's voice was quiet, a little amused.
“Mm.” It was the most I could manage.
He huffed a soft laugh. “That a yes?”
“Ask me again in five minutes.”
His arm tightened around me slightly, and I felt his lips press briefly against the top of my head.
I closed my eyes. The fire crackled softly, and I felt the exhaustion starting to pull at me.
CHAPTER 22
RETURN
GRANT
The highway signs started saying Toronto and I realized I'd been gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
The cabin was behind us now, fading into memory like a dream I'd half-convinced myself hadn't happened. But Jace was asleep in the passenger seat beside me—mouth slightly open, head tipped against the window, hair a mess—and that was real enough. Proof that the past week hadn't been some fever dream born of desperation and bad decisions.
I'd woken him early that morning, told him we needed to head back. He'd argued, of course, because that's what Jace did when he didn't want to face something. But I'd seen the resignation underneath the protest, the way he'd already started packing before I'd finished talking. He knew we couldn't hide forever. Knew the calendar was closing in whether we were ready or not.
He'd fallen asleep twenty minutes into the drive, knocked out by pain meds and exhaustion. I'd let him sleep. Let him have a few more hours of peace before reality came crashing back in.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder for the third time in ten minutes. I glanced down—Paul's name lighting up the screen—and sent it to voicemail without answering. June had called twice already. So had my assistant coach. Messages kept piling up, each one a reminder of the world I'd been ignoring while holed up in the woods with my injured star player.
I wasn't ready to answer them yet.
I just needed a few more miles of quiet before the machine started grinding again.
At a red light, I let myself look at Jace. The bruising on his face had faded to a dull yellow, but I could still see the ghost of impact. His shoulder was wrapped under his hoodie, the sling abandoned somewhere in the cabin because he'd insisted he didn't need it anymore. His leg was stretched out carefully, finding the most comfortable position in the cramped space.
He looked younger when he slept. Less guarded. The sharp edges smoothed out, the armor stripped away, leaving just a twenty-six-year-old kid who'd been carrying the weight of a franchise on his back and didn't know how to put it down.
I felt protective and furious at the same time. Protective because he was hurt and vulnerable and mine in a way I had no right to claim. Furious at the injury that had put him here, at the lie he'd built to hide his pain, at the system that had taught him to destroy himself for applause, at myself for wanting him anyway when I knew better.
